


you’re in my world now, not your world

by starblessed



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magic, Magical Realism, Memory Magic, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 11:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: All of Florence knows that the Medici are not quite like them; not born to the upper crust, without a drop of noble blood in their veins, but permanently elevated from the working people as well. The Medici are in a class all their own. Something about their very presence emphasizes the fact. They do not fit anywhere, never really belonging... yet their very presence could not seem more natural.No one questions why Lorenzo de Medici’s silver tongue is always so effective; why, on occasion, light flashes in his crystalline eyes, and the world appears to bend to his will. No one wonders why he rarely seems surprised at the ongoing crises in the Signoria, as if he anticipated every debate before it happens... or seen it play out in a dream, some kind of prophetic vision.The world simply bends to their will, and no one wonders why.





	you’re in my world now, not your world

**Author's Note:**

> notes: contains references to unwilling memory alteration, and probably unrealistic attitudes towards magic in 15th century Italy
> 
> but, hey, the inquisition hasn’t gotten here yet.

There is a subtle difference in the fabric of reality between the Medici’s world and his own.

If Francesco is being honest with himself, he really should have noticed it before. And he _had,_ in flashes, in tiny glimpses of specter before the fact. All of Florence knows that the Medici are not quite like them; not born to the upper crust, without a drop of noble blood in their veins, but permanently elevated from the working people as well. The Medici are in a class all their own. Something about their very presence emphasizes the fact. They do not fit anywhere, never really belonging... yet their very presence could not seem more natural.

No one questions why Lorenzo de Medici’s silver tongue is always so effective; why, on occasion, light flashes in his crystalline eyes, and the world appears to bend to his will. No one wonders why he rarely seems surprised at the ongoing crises in the Signoria, as if he anticipated every debate before it happens... or seen it play out in a dream, some kind of prophetic vision.

When Bianca de’ Medici plays her harp and ensnares the attention of an entire room, with the ease of a bird taking flight... when Giuliano de’ Medici loses his temper and the distant roll of thunder echoes over his cursing. Even Madonna Lucrezia, with her quick wit and ready charm, is sometimes a bit too quick, as if she anticipates what her companion will say a second before he actually says it.

The entire family commands their own presence, but Lorenzo has elevated himself to another level. Lorenzo, with his wily words and careless grace, the emphasis he places on thoughtless deeds of altruism... not a moment passes when Lorenzo is not conscious of how he is perceived. He represents his family to all of Florence. The people adore him. So even if they know, in some uncertain way, that there is something _other_ about the Medici, they will never question it. Their charming leader has a peculiar ability of enchanting all who follow him.

This is what baffles Francesco the most: how _easy_ it is for them to get away with it.

No, the people do not question, and most seem content not to even wonder. It would be easy to assume no one ever notices at all. Should the Medici suddenly lose their strange airs, and blend seamlessly into the rest of the population, _that_ would be strange. Whatever sway they hold, it is carefully-maintained and covert, enough that even the most pious priests do not call into question their devotion.

No one in their right mind would accuse the Medici of wielding magic.

Perhaps Francesco is not in his right mind. Perhaps he has not been for _years,_ ever since he sat around the breakfast table in the great Medici palazzo and observed Madonna Contessina serve each of her grandchildren breakfast without lifting a single plate. His glass of juice was filled by a pitcher suspended in midair, fruit drifted to his plate of its own accord, sugar drizzled onto his biscuits as if flurrying from an invisible winter cloud... and as young Francesco’s eyes grew wide with wonder, his friend nudged him under the table.

“You mustn’t tell anyone, alright?” Lorenzo, grinning, pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s our _glorious secret.”_

Over the years, he has almost convinced himself that the recollections are a warped product of a childish mind... but Francesco was one of the least imaginative boys ever raised, and the tutelage of his uncle went further in coaxing any fanciful inclinations out of him. He was never in the habit of weaving fantasies. The memories cannot have been dreamt up or fabricated. He wouldn’t have been capable of it.

So why, then, does that glimmering cloud of sugar above his plate remain so vivid? Why can he still see that flash in Madonna Contessina’s eyes, the quick flick of her fingers sending treats across the table? Hours spent puzzling over the issue on quiet nights yield no clear answer. Francesco has the sneaking suspicion that he was never supposed to understand in the first place... and even if he did, like most childhood recollections, they would fade with time until being forgotten entirely.

This was a miscalculation on the part of his rivals, because Francesco has not forgotten a thing.

In this realization lies a simple fact: either the Medici have defied the church, spat in the face of reality and God himself… or they key to their ascendency from common folk consists of something far more powerful than political savvy.

The realization is a shock of cold water down the front of his chest. Francesco’s body rebels against it; his mind cannot support its weight. He shudders and laughs aloud at the very thought: Lorenzo de’ Medici waving his hands and sending objects flying around the room, like a regular Merlin. Could anything be more absurd?

Any time the peculiar doubts rise in his mind, it is just as easy to dismiss them. The Medici are not wizards, they are not heretics… simply his family’s greatest rivals, determined to seize Florence for themselves.

One does not need magic to be a tyrant.

One does not even need magic, he decides, to be Lorenzo the Magnificent.

* * *

His habit of making excuses for the Medici family lasts as long as it takes to become intimately acquainted with them again. Then, of course, Lorenzo has to go and ruin everything.

It isn’t his fault that they lack any semblance of subtlety in their own home. Francesco did not ask to be invited for dinner; but after several months of tenuous alliance between his family and theirs, growing stronger with each day, it seems natural. Francesco does not rebel against the idea. As a matter of fact… he’s happy to join them. Dining with the Medici, sharing the joys of his newlywed brother and the family that has embraced him… it kindles fond memories of distant afternoons spent within the warmth of a family unit. Before his uncle swept him away, to a distant and impersonal upbringing… yes, he knew this happiness. There was a time it almost came naturally to him. He remembers Giuliano’s cherubic mischief, Monna Lucrezia’s doting, the way Guglielmo used to laugh so freely in their presence…

After a while, it feels as if everything has slid back into place. The way it should have been. The way it _can_ be, for the rest of his life. His new wife at his side, his brother across the table, and friends who have accepted him all around. What more could he hope for?

Nothing, he decides. The illusions he is building up are fragile, but he will guard them against anything that may shatter them. He will be content in his new life. Nothing can take him by surprise.

That is, until the night a chalice of wine floats across the Medici’s dinner table to land right in front of his plate.

“More?” Lorenzo asks, blinking at him from the end of the table. “You look parched.”

Novella was not able to join the party tonight, so it is just them alone — Francesco, up against the entire Medici clan. Silence falls across the table like a shroud. For a moment, no one dares breathe. The shock of Lorenzo’s action, a risk taken so boldly, with such deliberation, has yet to set in. Francesco is still trying to process it himself… but there are bigger questions on his mind. Blinking at the wine glass sitting in front of him — which certainly _wasn’t there_ a moment ago — he entertains a thousand possibilities in one breath, and settles on the least offensive.

“You’ve drugged me,” he says, voice deadpan with disbelief. “I’m hysterical.”

Lorenzo blinks wide blue eyes, as if he cannot quite believe _that’s_ the road Francesco’s chosen to take. Then, he smiles. “Forgive me, in that case. And have some more wine.”

Francesco takes his advice.

After several more glasses of potent Tuscan _vin,_ nothing seems quite so absurd anymore. He watches in contented amazement as Bianca conjures a rabbit made of silver mist, sending it scampering across the room; as Giuliano stirs lightning in a glass, and flips it upside-down to let the storm rage; as Guglielmo, never gifted with a hint of otherworldliness in his life, shows off the new tricks being taught to him. (He pulls a coin from behind Bianca’s ear. The table applauds.) Francesco witnesses it all, with the mute amazement of one completely out of his depth, and doesn’t quite know what to say until dinner has passed and the last grains of midnight sand are trickling to the bottom of the hourglass.

“You really did drug me,” he remarks, lounging bonelessly on the chaise in Lorenzo’s office. For a moment, he is convinced, because dazzling mirages of silver and gold dance before his eyes. Then he turns his head and finds Lorenzo lounging at his desk, absently twirling his finger in Francesco’s direction. When he goes still, the mirages dissolve into mist.

“I must claim innocence on that charge. You drugged _yourself_ into a wine-soaked oblivion, my friend.”

Fair enough. There are worse hills to die on. Francesco tries another tack. “You have magic.”

Lorenzo snaps his fingers. His office door swings closed. “Very astute.”

Oddly enough, confirmation of what he has privately known for years does not taste as sweet as it ought to. It’s underwhelming, really. “How?”

“How do we have magic?” Lorenzo arches a brow. “How does it work? How have we kept it hidden all this time? _How_ is a very vague question.”

Francesco is more concerned with how Lorenzo knew every single question he wanted to ask, before he could think to ask them. “You know exactly what I mean,” he accuses — because there can be no doubt, Lorenzo _does._

At least he accepts the assertion without contest. Bowing his head, Lorenzo folds his hands in front of him. When he smiles, Francesco heaves a sigh. It is that same expressive-yet-obscure smile, impossible to read, the one which drives him absolutely mad.

“It is not genetic, as far as we can tell. My grandmother wielded the abilities as well as any of her ascendants, and she was not a Medici by blood, only by name. The same virtue goes to my mother. My running theory is that it must be the name itself…”

“You’re not making any sense,” replies Francesco, head already beginning to pound.

“Magic is as magic does,” Lorenzo replies simply, with a flourish of hand which really ought to be accompanied by another door slamming, or the universe bending to his will. “It is not heretical or malignant… as neutral a force as a block of stone, to be sculpted to its wielder’s will. Magic simply is.”

He leans forward, elbows balancing on his thighs, and offers Francesco an impossible smirk.

“And magic belongs to the Medici.”

* * *

Of all things to get used to, it’s actually not so bad, after a while.

So, Lorenzo can ostensibly predict the future. His brother can summon thunderstorms on a whim, and his mother has the uncanny ability of picking up on thoughts before a person can voice them. It would be enough to send a more cautious man running for the hills; but Francesco stays. At first, he is unwilling to abandon his brother… but he remains out of fascination.

 _(Loyalty_ possibly comes into play as well… but knowing what he does, the wicked, paranoid part of Francesco’s mind cannot help wondering if Lorenzo has somehow bewitched him. He wouldn’t be surprised.)

“Do you remember,” Lorenzo asks one afternoon, “all the tricks I used to teach you?”

Francesco looks up in surprise, attention torn from the well in the center of the courtyard. He’d been so occupied staring into its depths, absently musing on days gone by, that he hadn’t almost forgotten Lorenzo’s presence entirely. His confusion must betray itself on his face, for Lorenzo laughs. Brows furrowing, Francesco straightens up and shakes his head.

“You don’t remember the fireworks?” Lorenzo arches a brow. “I used to make fireworks burst over our heads. We’d hide ourselves away in a curtained room, all us children, and I would fill the shadows with light. You really don’t remember?”

Francesco’s mouth pulls down into a frown. He crosses his arms in front of him, wracking his brain for any semblance of memory… but not even an echo of Lorenzo’s description has survived the years. It seems an impossible thing to forget, but Francesco cannot pick fireworks from the mire of his memories. Lorenzo may as well be recalling a life he never lived.

“What about the great tantrums Giuliano used to have? He sent a whole bookcase flying once. We were standing by the window, and it nearly killed us both.” Lorenzo looks a little incredulous. “You really don’t remember a thing?”

“All I recall,” Francesco replies, “is that breakfast. Madonna Contessina, and the pitcher of juice… and a cloud of powdered sugar.” He tries to sharpen the memories, to bring them to life in front of his eyes as vivid fact… but they are only as clear as they have ever been. He cannot pick out any more details, not a single fresh memory.

It does not seem possible. The Medici use magic so freely around their home; even the servants are nonplussed by it, knowing better than to let a word of rumor pass their lips outside palazzo walls. It is commonplace. After the deaths of their parents, the young Pazzi boys stayed with the family for several weeks before their uncle could claim them, and were frequent visitors beforehand. He should have more memories of impossible happenings in his youth… there is no way they could all fade against the deluge of time.

“That was the last morning,” he muses, “wasn’t it? The day our Uncle claimed us. It was our last breakfast together.”

“It was.” Lorenzo looks similarly pensive, arms crossed over his chest. After a moment of silence, he takes several steps closer, peering into the depths of the well. Dual reflections gaze up at him. One looks more worried than the other. For his part, Lorenzo appears unconcerned. “Tell me… did you speak to my grandfather that day?”

It takes several blinks of surprise for the memory to return to him — Cosimo the Elder, ruled so often by his ill-health in those days, rarely joined his family in their lively pursuits. To the touch folk he was a revered figure, doting upon his grandchildren; but Francesco so rarely saw the man. When he had been called personally into Cosimo’s office, a few minutes after his older brother exited, he’d been breathless with anticipation…

For the life of him, Francesco cannot remember the cause of that meeting, not what they talked about.

“He had a way of doing that,” Lorenzo replies with a small chuckle. “Fogging the past, misting the present, then blowing it all away like smoke on the wind. His… talent, if you will. It served him well. You’ve never heard of the name Albizzi, have you?”

The unfamiliar address holds a dull ring to it, like the echo of a bell in Francesco’s ears. His frown deepens, though he cannot say why; certainly he has never heard of anyone called _Albizzi_ in his life.

A dull certainty settles in his stomach as the pieces line up. If Lorenzo has to ask, there almost certainly _was_ someone called Albizzi in Florence not so long ago… and Cosimo de’ Medici ensured their total removal. Which means…

“Why would he do that?”

Lorenzo has already opened his mouth to answer when Francesco elaborates. “Why would he leave something behind?”

Finally, one of his questions seems to take Lorenzo by surprise. It gives him pause, drawing him to hesitate in his stead. One arm braces him against the edge of the well, while the other hand comes up to stroke his chin.

A moment’s thought proves fruitless; he can come up with no better answer than Francesco, and it shows in the bemusement in his eyes. Seeing Lorenzo de’ Medici uncertain, even for a moment, gives Francesco a grin satisfaction.

“I cannot say,” he replies at last. “Perhaps one memory… slipped through the cracks.” His eyes spark, and it no longer startles Francesco as much as excites him. “Or maybe you really _wanted_ to remember.”

The suggestion hangs between them for a moment. Francesco has no idea what to make of it, and isn’t sure he’s willing to try. Instead he scoffs, turning back to the well again. Far below, the water looks unnaturally dark; liquid obsidian swirls in the depths, like a pitch mirror reflecting idealized versions of themselves back upwards. Francesco almost appears at peace now, and Lorenzo… as ever, Lorenzo is confident.

“What _tricks_ did you used to teach me?” he finally asks, though unsure he really wants to know. Again, Lorenzo looks surprised; then he laughs out loud.

“Coin tricks. And you were better at them than your brother.” He holds out a hand. “Watch.”

His palm is flat, empty; it balls into a fist, before opening again. Suddenly a gold coin glimmers in the center of his palm. Francesco is not surprised; this is the least of unusual things he’s seen around the Medici, today alone.

After a moment, he gets the hint, and takes the coin. Lorenzo smiles. “Now, drop it in the well.”

“Why?”

“Go ahead and do it.”

“This is good money. What sort of banker are you?”

“My grandfather was a banker,” Lorenzo replies, the unspoken implication that he is something _far greater_ hanging in his words. Francesco’s brows furrow, but after a moment’s pause, he obeys. The coin tumbles to the water like a stone, landing with a soft splash. Ripples disrupt their reflections, billowing outwards.

“Now. See.”

Francesco’s hand still hovers over the water. Gently, Lorenzo settles his hand over it. For a moment, the unexpected touch, the weight — surprisingly less than he expected — distracts him entirely. He can see nothing but the contrasting shades of their skin, longer fingers stretching over his own as if eager to intertwine. Instead, Lorenzo is stretching forward… and Francesco does not realize his purpose until he sees the water rising up to greet them.

A surge of liquid becomes a rope, then a great long arm, reaching up from the water. Francesco’s hand is the one closest; he is the one to meet it. For a moment, he brushes palms with the impossible. Then, something rough presses against his skin, and his fist closes abruptly. When he pulls away, his hand is not dripping, but it burns from the heat of Lorenzo’s touch.

“See,” Lorenzo urges again, leaning closer. Francesco looks down, allowing his palm to open between them.

Settled in the center is a gleaming gold coin. With a start, he registers the face engraved upon it. He bears a very distinct likeness, and it would be hard not to recognize himself.

When he flips the coin over, he is unsurprised to find Lorenzo’s face emblazoned on the back.

“Two sides of the same coin,” he remarks dryly. “Perhaps I can see the future, too… or you’re getting predictable.”

Lorenzo laughs, loud and warm, before clapping him on the back.

“Not predictable at all, my friend.” He emphasizes his words with a wave of his hand, and all shadows flee from the courtyard to welcome an abundance of light. “It’s called _power..._ and to wield it requires true ability. One could almost call it magic.”


End file.
